The Child Who Built Everett’s Prosperity

Got up this morning at 5 as usual. Oh my, this is my birthday; ain't I glad I saved up nearly 30 cents in my bank? And I told my ma and my father it would be nice to use it to celebrate with. Ma was tired, bein' up with the baby, and she has a cough, you know, so I cooked myself the loveliest breakfast of fried bread before I started. I was ten minutes late on account of this, and the superintendent docked me 10 cents. Oh well, it was worth it. I don't have a birthday every day in the year. It's a lovely walk to the factory in the mornin'. And I like it so much better than at night, because then it is nearly dark, and I am so tired and kind of stagger along and my eyes don't see straight, and I'm so glad to get home and throw myself down anywhere and sleep. Yesterday a man came, and we all had to lie about our ages. The superintendent said it was only a matter of form, but we'd better do it, cause we might lose our jobs if we didn't. And I said I was over fifteen, and then the man—he was an inspector or something—he put his hand on my head and said I didn't look it. The superintendent says, 'No, it stunts them sometimes, but it's good work for them to be leadin' useful lives.' And then the inspector went away smoking a big cigar. Prosperity, I guess, is an invisible giant... that makes the big wheels whir and piles up the orders and makes the foreman swear at us and makes night shifts and gives me pains all over in my bones.